


Because of Love

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Appreciating others, Cabin, Christmas, F/M, Family Issues, Fluff, Fortitude - Freeform, Friendship, Hope, Love, Multi, Seeing things out, Snow, Strength, different paths, established relationships - Freeform, festive, money issues, set post series 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-13 22:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12994302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: With a dip in your financial situation the last thing that Mycroft and you want to be doing is staying with your sister Claire and her smarmy husband over the festive period. Will things go badly or can a silver lining be found?





	Because of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas! :) 
> 
> Another fic will be up by the end of the year. :)
> 
> For now I hope you enjoy this one. :) 
> 
> Thank you all for your support. It is much appreciated. :)

**2016**

“We don’t have to go.” You finally breach the topic that you’ve been trying to avoid on the eighth of December when you can’t bear the pressure of it building up inside your stomach any more. It’s as hard as those cakes your mum used to make. You momentarily put your fork down, so that you can run a s/c hand down over the flat of your belly. Today you’re wearing a modest, but smart trouser suit from your day’s work. You’ve had quite a rough day in school-you’re a Headmistress in a struggling one, and though you’d been pleased to come home it had lost its usual gleam because you’d known that you’d have to have this conversation. Your e/c eyes narrow a little in a kind of pained apprehension and you brush back a strand of h/c hair, before you return to your meal. 

 

 _“What?”_ Mycroft, your husband, releases a snort, before it becomes somewhat muffled as he dislodges a piece of runner bean string that had got stuck in between his teeth. He drapes down the thin strand onto his mostly gravy covered plate with a long, disgruntled finger. Gives your own plate a disdainful look out of stormy blue eyes beneath his usual neat auburn hair. You always try and sneak vegetables into his dinner despite the fact that you often neglect to do so for yourself. “And have _Finance_ Freddie think I'm a coward? I don’t think so.”

 

You let out a sort of beleaguered sigh. 'Finance Freddie,' 'Fast Freddie' or 'Free Wallet Freddie' are among the various terms of bitter endearment that Mycroft has bestowed Fred, your sister Claire’s husband with. The man is in insurance cover, whilst Claire is a stay at home mum. To say that Mycroft doesn’t like Fred would be an understatement of epic proportions, but ever since your mother-your last surviving parent-passed away a few years ago you’ve been taking turns to host one another for Christmas. One year you’ll go to Mycroft’s parents, the next either to Claire’s or perform as acting host yourself. That’s how you find yourself here and unfortunately this couldn't be a worse year to be going to your sister’s. “It doesn’t matter what he thinks. What _anyone_ thinks as long as you’re happy.” You’ve dealt with this response from Mycroft many a time, albeit only when you were playing through every scenario in your mind, but _still,_ you’re rather fed up of hearing it by now.

 

“We’re going.” Mycroft shoves a pile of runner beans into his mouth and tries to block out the vision of the small, slightly cramped flat, which surrounds you both. It’s neat and homely in its own way. There are some knick-knacks that you’ve collected throughout your life and blue and brown furniture, but no photos of you with your sister, only ones of Mycroft and you. Whilst there are more books than DVD’s, a rack with a pile of newspapers, both local and national and women’s magazines in them. Also lingering about is a box full of ideas for your school. The most prized possession however is probably a slightly scratched vinyl player that pops out of what looks like an old suitcase and which Mycroft cares for as if it’s a child. _Still,_ it’s a far cry from the old Kensington home that you’d once shared. Now you have a normal wardrobe instead of a walk-in one and the bathroom becomes far more easily cluttered with both of your things. Yet to you it’s home. 

 

*

 

Of course that’s not the end of the Christmas issue though. Mycroft comes home from his new work in cyber security one day to find you sitting on the small, but comfortable blue settee that you’d installed recently [for a thankfully good price] looking at dolls on your laptop. He’s a little alarmed to begin with, nearly spilling his red wine. You’re glad that he doesn’t. The stain would be one hell of a thing to get out from the settee. 

 

“They’re for the boys,” you say dryly, referencing your sister’s seven-year-old horrors. You’re not offended by Mycroft’s response though, far from it. In fact you’re sure that out of the two of you you’d be more horrified if you got accidentally pregnant like your sister recently has. Especially since you know how awful children can be from school. Mycroft on the other hand would probably take it as a wonderful excuse to shop and spoil you. He’d be looking at items on his phone, before you’d even got used to the idea. 

 

 _“Oh.”_ Mycroft sips at his wine, adjusting himself into a more comfortable position. “The _twins?”_ he says suddenly, as if realizing what you’ve just said. 

 

You grow red, shifting about a bit. “Yeah, I know it’s a little unorthodox, but I was thinking”-you turn a little more towards him now-“How your brother, well, how your brother used to think of Victor as a dog, Redbeard, and how he kind of looked back on that time as being a good one, before he realized the truth of it all of course and I think, well, I know it’s a bit different”- Mycroft’s face is serious now and you feel awkward. Talking about anything that touches on Eurus is always difficult despite the fact that its been over a year now since the truth of it was discovered. “But I thought the twins could do with something that brings out a more caring side of them instead of”- you break off again, edging against another topic that’s awkward. 

 

“Them getting what they want all the time?” Mycroft is delicate, careful.

 

“Mm. Instead of what they need maybe yeah,” you muse.

 

Mycroft is thoughtful for a moment. You go back to your scrolling. Some of those dolls look really weird. Big eyes. Elaborately over the top eyelashes. Puffy hamster cheeks. The ones that go to the toilet and cry are even stranger you think. Mycroft shifts his position. Moves his wine glass from one hand to the other and then back again. Your senses flare up. You find yourself watching him more out of the corner of your eye than the screen. “You don’t think that you should have a conversation with Claire about it, before deciding?” Mycroft asks you in a deliberately casual fashion. “I'm aware of what you’re trying to do, but Claire might need more forewarning or be against it completely. Some people can be sensitive about changing the status quo.”

 

Your spirit dulls a little at the reminder. You know that Mycroft’s probably right. You’d gotten so carried away with your good idea that you’d forgotten that Claire’s nature might get in the way of it being received gladly. You flick to her Facebook page now, thinking that you might get a better suggestion from there and that you can always talk to her if you don’t. No point in being too forward about these things. Your eye catches on Claire’s latest post. _‘So excited about this year’s waif Christmas! Hosting my sister and her husband. They've had a tough year, so happy to help out!’_ Underneath is a photo of a massive floor to ceiling traditional Christmas tree in your sister’s Oxford home, spruced up with red themed decorations. Claire, in full make-up and knee-length dress stands in front of it, half-turned into husband Fred with his side parting, moustache and smirk and the twin boys beaming in front of them, their mops of hair as neatly combed as they can be. They look like the perfect family you think. Beneath that in the comments there are people praising Claire for her apparent thoughtfulness and worrying about whether she’ll be able to have an enjoyable Christmas herself. Your mouth gapes a little, before you swallow determinedly. You’re about to flick off the page, not wanting Mycroft to see it and thinking that the boys can have a doll after all, Claire be damned, when Mycroft, who seems to have a sixth sense about being there when you’d really prefer him not to be, peers over. You still, holding your breath. You feel a cloud overtake him. Like one of those tropical ones it comes on suddenly. 

 

 _“ ‘Waif_ Christmas,’” he scoffs. 

 

Your fingers shift uncomfortably across the keyboard. “I know it’s a little insensitive. She means well. I swear she does. I'm cross about it too. She just wasn’t thinking,” you say.

 

“Making it sound like we’re strays who need a place to stay when it’s her turn to host anyway.” Mycroft stands. 

 

You put the laptop aside. _“Myc.”_ You get up. He folds his arms. Doesn't look at you. _Can’t_ look at you. “I’ll sort it out okay. I’ll sort it.” Trying to be reassuring now you go across and grasp at his arm, rubbing at it a little. He grunts. Goes off. You look after him worriedly, before you reach for the phone that’s on the side table. Sinking back down into the settee you dial your sister’s number. 

 

 _“F/N!_ Did you see my post? We’re all ready for you. Don’t worry our country house will look just as nice.” Claire is enthusiastic. She also sounds a little tipsy, as if she’d been drinking, whilst decorating. 

 

“Yeah I saw it.” You’re more cautious now, though there’s a bit of an edge to your words that you can’t help. “I think you could have worded it a little differently though. Saying something like, ‘waif,’ was unhelpful.”

 

“Oh _F/N!”_ Obviously your sister, not for the first time thinks that you’re being a little over-sensitive about these things. 

 

 _“Mycroft…_ and not just Mycroft, me too, well we both thought it sounded like you were putting us down, and we’re grateful, of course we’re grateful for you letting us stay, but when it’s your turn to host anyway and it’s not like we couldn't have had a nice Christmas here”-

 

 _“What?_ In that poky little flat of yours?” Claire laughs. 

 

“There’s nothing wrong with it.” You feel immediately defensive. Yes, your flat might be small, and yes, when it had all happened you’d been a little apprehensive about the move, more because of how it might effect your relationship with Mycroft than anything else-you’d both been under strain and you’d worried about being on top of one another-but now you wouldn't swap your little home for the world. 

 

“F/N I’ve seen it, it’s tiny! I can’t imagine what I’d do if that happened to Freddie and I. Of course Fred would have never”-

 

 _“Listen,_ I’ve said what I’ve had to. If you could bear it in mind for the future then both Mycroft and I would be grateful for it.” You hang up, patience waning. Claire’s almost criticism of Mycroft was the last thing you could take. The year’s been hard enough as it is. You get up and go and find your husband. He’s in the bedroom, past the double bed with its warm, snuggly brown bedspread, looking out of the window even though it’s too dark now to see anything, hand pressed to his forehead, kneading his headache. “I phoned her. Explained that we didn't exactly appreciate the wording.” 

 

“I heard.”

 

You let out a rueful breath and wrap your arms around his waist, teetering up on your tiptoes just enough, so that your chin can be on his shoulder. 

 

Mycroft still can’t look at you. “Now they’ll probably think”- his voice is hollow enough for you to tell that he’s probably going through agony on the inside. 

 

“I don’t _care_ what they think,” you say vehemently, squeezing onto him tight. “They can’t just go around acting like they’re doing some massive favour for us when they’re not. We’re fine.” You almost ask, _‘Aren't we?’_ but that sounds too needy and you have to be the strong one now. Time has taught you that. Mycroft pushes back against you a little, closing his eyes and you hold and hold onto him. As you do a memory returns and you are there once more…

 

 _It feels like an ordinary day, albeit one that has its little annoyances. You’d woken a little later than normal. Mycroft had already left for his government work. He’d left you a little note by his bedside lamp that had made you smile. You’d touched at the fountain pen kiss with your finger, studying the way that the ink had dragged slightly, as if he’d been reluctant to leave you and wanted to stretch out the moment for as long as possible. Then you’d forced yourself out of bed and greeted the spring day. You’d hurried out of the red brick Kensington home with its three sprawling floors after taking a quick diversion to the open plan kitchen to grab a snack bar-a chocolate chip one, you don’t really see the point in them otherwise-and locked up. You’d flicked through the news headlines on your phone as you’d walked-you’d planned to eat your snack bar on the bus later. Mycroft always tells you off whenever he sees you walking and checking something on your phone at the same time via CCTV, but it never deters you. You’d just gotten to the bus stop when you’d realized that you should have picked up a folder that you’d need to discuss in the morning staff meeting. There is going to be an inspection soon and you need to go over a few things. You’d sworn [another thing that Mycroft wouldn't have appreciated] and made your way back to the house. Now you open the door and see that in the time you’ve been away the post has arrived. You don’t know what makes you do it, it’s not like you have time for it after all, but something makes you rifle through the envelopes a little as you put them down on the sideboard. One of them makes alarm bells ring inside you. You put down the others without thought. The one you’re concerned about has an ‘URGENT’ stamp on it in the bottom right hand corner. It looks like a bill. A very pressing bill. You swallow. If it needs to be sorted that imminently then there should have been letters before now, but you haven’t seen any. It’s addressed just to Mycroft. You push it down onto the sideboard; half turn away as you think about it and then look back again. Your finger toys with the corner of it as your mind goes back through recent events. You haven’t noticed anything different about Mycroft’s spending habits. That’s the first thing that occurs to you. He’s been spending as much as normal you think, but then you begin to add it all up in your head and you realize that he’s been treating you more lately. There had been that trip to Italy for a long weekend during the February half-term break for a start, outings to restaurants most Friday nights and not the cheap kind either, impromptu nights where you'd found him home early, cooking for you, the table elaborately decorated. You’d pushed any niggling thought about it to the back of your mind. But the gardens of the house have also been spruced up lately after a long winter. Someone had been brought in to take care of all the grass and hedges. That must have been expensive. You remember offering to pay for it, or at least part of it since you live here too and probably get more enjoyment out of the gardens than Mycroft does to be fair, lounging on the grass with a good book and a glass of wine during the summer. You’d even strung up a hammock between two of the trees on the edge of the property. One day last summer Mycroft had come home and carried a delicious cream cake that he’d picked up on his way home out to you. You’d shared it, flirted as you licked at the cream. That day of summer bliss feels a very long time ago now, as you stare down at this envelope. Those things…all those little treats can’t have tipped Mycroft over into the red can they? In any case you’ve always thought of him as being very sensible. Thought that if he treated you then it was because he could genuinely afford it. You feel queasy, your head hot and prickly, your feet on uneven flooring. But everything must be fine you think now. This must just be one of those things that can be sorted out easily enough. Maybe it’s just something that Mycroft’s overlooked and let slip a little? One cheque and it will all be sorted out. If letters like this had been coming for a long time then you would have noticed wouldn't you? Still, your fingers pluck at the envelope. Your mind debates whether you should open it. It’s Mycroft’s post. He might be angry at the blatant invasion of his privacy. That’s one of those conversations that you’d had with him. That you’d stick to separate bank accounts because it was easier that way and in any case you were both quite open on what you spent money on so you should have been able to spot any problems. That you wouldn't go through each other’s post or phones. That at most he’d be able to keep an eye on you via CCTV, but there would be an element of trust there. That if you had a problem he knew that you could come to him and vice versa, but he hasn’t come to you about this. You wonder if you should phone him. If you should wait. Give him a chance to explain things. But then you remember about Eurus again and how that had still managed to happen after that perfect summer afternoon and despite those boundaries being in place and it’s as if you decide right in that moment and your fingers are opening the envelope. You feel in a state of shock once the flap is open, as if you can’t believe what you’ve just done. Looking around you feel nervous and jumpy, but then you steady yourself and pull the letter out. Just scanning it makes you feel sick. You realize two things. One that there has clearly, by the letter’s threatening tone alone, been more of them. Mycroft must have been deliberately hiding them from you and suddenly you realize why he’d been so reluctant to leave your side that morning-he didn't know how long left he might have with you. He thinks that you’re going to leave him. Two [or is it three or even four?] that nothing is going to be the same now._

 

 **Christmas Eve**

 

You try and smile as Mycroft and you troop towards the stone house that’s in the middle of nowhere in mid-Wales. In actual fact it’s at the bottom of a not so small set of mountains that are dusted with snow and at the end of a row of houses in a small town, but if that point feels negligible to you having come from a place like this then you’re sure that it feels even more so for Mycroft who has already gloomily watched his phone signal fade away in the car [you always drive, but this year there was no doubt in your mind that you were going to be the one doing so.] _Still,_ you try to smile as you carry numerous bags full of wrapped up gifts. Mycroft grumbles beside you [his shoulders had gotten noticeably stiffer the closer you’d gotten and one carrier bag droops down from his wrist now along with his umbrella, whilst he looks at his phone introspectively, as if hoping that the signal might burst into life again.] You make your way from the small, crumbling unofficial car park across a small stile [Mycroft’s mood does not improve] and through the wilds of a field. It’s snowing now and blowing a gale at the same time. You no longer hear Mycroft’s complaints as you walk on ahead, bowing your head, skin stinging your reddened cheeks, whilst both your white bobble hat and scarf with their patterned silver snowflakes threaten to blow away from you. The stripes of snow against the grassy reeds and the patches in between make the landscape look all the more desolate. You come out on a small gravel pathway to the side of your sister’s house, the top of which is festooned with fairy lights. If you didn't know the place then you might have thought that it was a pub close to a bridge and stream. At the very least what with it being so rustic and beautiful it should be in one of those magazines that are full of beautiful people in beautiful houses. The types that you’ve idly flicked through before, whilst at Claire’s house in Oxford, drinking tea. Outside of this one there are hideous fairy ornaments either side of the door, as if they’re protecting the place and both Mycroft and you pull a face at them. You don’t have long to do so however because suddenly the turquoise door is opening, swinging the silver and blue wreath [that alone must have cost a small fortune you wager] nearly into your face and the whole family is tumbling out. Your sister-her bump preceding her-with her stylishly cut h/c hair [“Every three weeks. I can’t bear split ends”] a black and white square patterned dress that she wears so naturally despite her condition that you could quite easily get tricked into thinking that she wears it everyday about the house if you didn't already know that whenever her husband’s in work her true slob self comes out in her maroon hoodie and grey tracksuit bottoms. Today she’s paired her dress with gold Christmas tree earrings _[‘Actual gold you know, none of that fake stuff,’_ she’d posted on her Facebook page three days ago when she’d received them from her husband] and matching gold heels [“You wouldn't believe the price I got them for!” Claire had exclaimed when you’d rang her to discuss the Christmas visit. “Of course Fred would have paid any price for them…oh, sorry F/N. Keep forgetting you know.” “It’s fine,” you’d said thinly. You’d _known_ that she hadn’t forgotten.] Seeing her in such a get up today just reminds you of how fashionable she is in any condition. When you were little you’d tried to emulate your big sister whenever she would go out on the town, but what looked remarkable on her just made you look as if you were playing dress-up like a sloppy child putting on their mother’s make-up. It had torn up your sixteen-year-old self to see such a thing, as you’d stood by your eighteen-year-old sister and stared into the mirror at you both. In the present Fred in his shirtsleeves does an impression of the loving family man, his silver cuff links and matching wristwatch on show, smirk held just about in place for now as he shakes Mycroft’s hand. [Your husband looks like he has toothache.] Oh all right, it’s not as if Fred’s _not_ loving, he does care for everyone you know. It’s just that everything’s so false with him. Last but not least of course the twin boys with their mops of hair, glinting eyes and yelling mouths. They’re wearing matching reindeer jumpers and would probably look adorable if it weren’t for their grabbing hands and incessant noise like they’re baby birds receiving food. 

 

“Presents!” Fred Jr squeals, snatching at one of your carrier bags. You try and hold it out of his reach, but then Jack helps his brother snatch it away. Soon they’re taking all the carrier bags. Even Mycroft’s one. Your husband disapprovingly hands it over to them. 

 

 _“Oh,_ you shouldn't have,” Claire says, withdrawing from a hug with you. 

 

“We’re not really as poor as all that. We can still afford Christmas gifts,” Mycroft says airily now. You let out a breath and nudge him in the ribs. You’d hoped that the tension might be able to hold off for a bit longer. 

 

Fred lets out a bit of a laugh. “Not still sore over that Facebook post are you? Just wanted people to know you’re being looked after that’s all.”

 

“I'm sure that no one cares either way. Maybe about F/N, but certainly not about me.” 

 

 _“Mycroft.”_ You grasp at his arm. He gives you a bit of a considerate stare, jaw moving as if he’s chewing gum. It’s not gum you have to worry about though. You’ll know if Mycroft starts smoking again that things are bad. His eyes flicker across you for a moment. They go back to Fred. 

 

“Just a little joke. Of course we’re grateful.” He looks like it had been a strain just to get the words out. You feel somewhat relieved that he’d even managed to. 

 

“Good sport.” Fred claps Mycroft on the shoulder just as the twins manage to rip one of the carrier bags they’d been fighting over in the background. The contents spill out with a thud. A wrapped up tin for Claire goes rolling. She’s always going on about how much she likes your white chocolate chip cookies so you’d forced yourself to make two dozen of them one Saturday. There might be a few less in there now though. Mycroft had been feeling peckish. You’d had one too, less than grudgingly because you’d done all the hard work. Claire turns around in what is a well-practiced move by now considering her condition. You wince as she screeches, “Presents tomorrow, not today! How many times do I have to tell you?” 

 

In what is _equally_ a well-rehearsed move Fred tugs you inside, lest the neighbours be subjected to his wife’s screeches and Mycroft follows, closing the door carefully behind him. You’d be feeling a wave of affection for him if it weren’t for the fact that Fred chooses that moment to hug you. It’s a little bit too long and warm. _Creep._ Mycroft clears his throat from behind you. You manage to detangle yourself, before Mycroft and you shed your winter gear, putting your coats, scarves, and your hat on the pegs by the door. Whilst Mycroft's umbrella goes in the umbrella stand. 

 

The house looks like a magazine on the inside too-all wooden furniture, matching colours of black, white, grey, a warm red and special maroon cushions that are just for Christmas. They have a large, white snowflake on each of them. Even when things had been going well for you, you’ve never got those magazine spreads that seem to think that people have the money to re-decorate the house for each season. Who’s got the time for all that? Your sister has apparently you think because this whole house is just for Christmas. They've got a summer home in Malta. Beyond the joint kitchen, dining room and living room [you’d think that all this would be squashed, but of course it’s immaculately spaced out and elegant in the perfect display of a modern home that has traditional furnishings] is a wooden ladder that leads to the loft, part of which is in plain view. [Fred had indulged your sister’s quirkiness since this house rarely gets used.] As it is the only space in the triangular loft is filled with a mattress and duvet on the floor, some bedside tables and lamps along with an unbeaten view of the outdoors [or at least it would be if that window ever got cleaned you think, but again the house is barely used] so it is only Mycroft and you who will be struggling up that ladder tonight. Mycroft to his credit has never complained about having to do such a thing. 

 

Still, you can tell that the sight of such sudden expense-the red gleaming saucepans, which hang off down the kitchen walls close to the ‘NOEL’ in white stencil letters on the shelf, the latest food processors and equipment, the elaborate red tablecloth and the centrepiece of the white tree with its already twinkling fairy lights despite the fact that evening has barely set in and the numerous amount of wrapped presents beneath the tree, its uneven placed baubles make Mycroft’s eyes twitch-have made your husband feel rather introspective and on guard. You decide that now would be a good time to take your small amount of luggage in your carry case with wheels [you’re leaving Boxing Day thank God] upstairs. 

 

Mycroft decides that it can’t possibly be safe for you to lug it up at the same time as climbing the ladder, but you’re worried about his safety too, so you compromise by scurrying quickly upstairs yourself and having Mycroft pass you the case. Of course the usually noisy twins decide to be quiet at this point so the whole family of four end up watching you both with a steady fascination in their eyes. 

 

You pull the case up by the bottom of the mattress, which is out of sight from downstairs and stay crouched there for a moment, even though the wooden floor feels cold beneath you, with your head bowed. Never mind Mycroft you think, this visit might be too much for you if it carries on in the same way. 

 

You feel Mycroft’s uncertain presence behind you. Feel his fingertips a moment later upon your shoulder. 

 

“It’ll be all right you know?” you say once he’s let go of you. You turn your head, once more trying to smile. 

 

Mycroft doesn’t reply. You feel that ache inside your chest. Its grown very familiar to you over the past year. 

 

*

 

_“How many are there?” You throw the crumpled letter from this morning at Mycroft’s chest. You’ve been fisting it up in your hands and then unfolding it again to read the words that you still can’t believe are real. Your eyes are red. Voice choked._

_“I can explain.” Mycroft is pale. He raises his hands. He’d been coming out of a meeting this morning when he’d received a call from you. He’d been a little distracted-head still in cyber space-so he’d let it go to voice mail. He’d come out of his daze and listened to it. He’d known then from your choked voice and the way that you’d said you hadn’t gone into work today, that you’d phoned in sick to your deputy, and how you’d really appreciate it if he could come home, even if it was only for a few minutes, that you’d found out everything. The cowardly part of him had then spent the next couple of hours with stomach cramps as he’d wondered what on earth he should do next. Whether he should go home or stay in work. He’d finally forced himself home at lunchtime. He hadn't been able to concentrate anyway. Now, trembling a little on the inside, he stares at you, as he stands there barely over the threshold. You’re about to leave him. About to go. He knows you are and he feels panicked-he'll cry later if you leave, but for now he feels too shocked to-wracked with guilt about it all. If there’s anything that he can do, anything at all then-_

_“How many?” you demand again._

_“If we can just sit down for a”- he attempts to move forwards, to steer you further into the house. If he can just get you away from the door…he doesn’t think you’ve packed yet, but he doesn’t want to take any chances. If he can just talk to you, explain-_

_“How many?” You shrug him off you and look at him savagely._

_Mycroft lets out a sigh now. He can feel the despair crawling up inside his heart. “Follow me.” You do so suspiciously._

_He takes you to the study on the ground floor. Up to the old oak desk that you’ve shared a bottle of scotch over on many a night. He unlocks the bottom drawer. Takes out the almost overflowing batch of letters that he’s been storing inside it. “I’ve been getting someone to collect the post each day,” he almost snorts in a rueful fashion. “I considered having them diverted to my work, but didn't want anyone to know. I got a text from the person today, just after you left your message, saying that they were ill”-_

_“There seems to be a lot of that going around.” You don’t know why you’re joking. Nothing about this is remotely funny. Clutching at your head and feeling dizzy and sick you mutter, “What have you done Mycroft?” You sit down in front of the desk on the chair that Mycroft scrapes out for you. He goes to fetch you a glass of scotch, diluted with water. You sip at it gratefully. He squeezes at your shoulder and leans against the desk, looking at you thoughtfully._

_“I'm so sorry F/N.”_

_“Please tell me that this isn’t as bad as it seems.” You can barely look at him._

_The whole thing comes tumbling out. “I lost my job.” You let out a long breath. It makes the amber liquid ripple._

_“When?” you ask._

_“January. The beginning of January.” Mycroft remembers it well. “After Eurus, well, there had been some discussion about my…suitability for the job still. My trustworthiness.”_

_You could have an argument against his trustworthiness yourself at the moment-first Eurus and now this-but you feel a sudden surge of anger. “You’ve given so much to that job. So many years service.”_

_“I let a lot of people down,” Mycroft says with a firm resignation that gets your eyes lifting to meet his. He holds your gaze for one steady moment. You know that he means his family, his colleagues, you…“In any case I could not argue with the decision.” Looking a bit awkward now he folds his arms and glances off to the side. He takes a deep breath, before he looks back at you. “I accepted their recommendation to leave and I left. Since I could hardly ask for a reference after what happened it took me a bit longer than maybe it would have to get another job. Some more explaining shall we say.” He gives you a pained grimace now and you realize that once more he has been suffering without you even realizing it._

_“I wish you’d told me.”_

_“I was trying not to let you down again, so soon after the previous time too. I thought that I could fix it and then have a slight conversation about it with you and things wouldn't seem so bad, but the assets I own are in this house. I don't have much hard cash as you know, which is why the transition affected me. ” Once more his smile is grim. “I managed to get a job in cyber security. It’s stimulating work, but it pays less. I’ve been trying to find something with larger pay, but I am not exactly a welcome figure in my old haunts.”_

_“So you’ve been trying to spend as much as you usually did, so as not to let on?” you guess._

_“If not more so yes.” He looks at you now and rubs at his jaw a little guiltily. “I wanted to do anything I could to stop you from finding out so soon.”_

_"And make things worse for yourself whilst you did so." You let out a sort of hollow laugh. He takes the glass away from you and places it down on the desk. You push your hands down towards your knees, before you look up at him again. “Well, you would have probably gotten away with it if it wasn’t for that meddling sick bug.”_

_He looks at you curiously, one eyebrow peaked. “Is that from something?”_

_“It’s my take on ‘Scooby-Doo.’ Christ.” You run a hand through your hair. “Don’t know why I'm joking”-_

_Mycroft teeters forwards a little. “If I just cut down ever so slightly then perhaps that will be enough to tide us over?” You look at the pile of letters in a rueful fashion. “I have an income now and you have yours of course. You wouldn't have to suffer. I’d make sure”-_

_“How much do you owe?” you cut off his rambling, looking at him._

_“Thousands,” his voice is hoarse._

_Any idea of this being quickly over leaves you._

 

*

 

You try and make conversation over dinner. _Trying._ Sometimes you’re fed up of it. Especially when you can feel Mycroft sitting so morosely beside you, picking politely at his roast dinner [seems senseless really when you’ll be having another one tomorrow, but that’s what you’ve got. You don’t blame Fred though who is the chef in this household. It’s the easiest option.] 

 

“So boys, are you looking forward to tomorrow?” It’s probably a foolish question, but it’s the best that you can come up with. 

 

“Been tracking Santa all day. Haven’t we kids?” Fred nods to the shiny silver laptop that’s resting on a red pouffe close to where the fire’s dancing merrily inside the grate. It’s like being within a Christmas card it really is. A very _expensive_ Christmas card. You squeeze Mycroft’s knee beneath the table. He swallows his latest mouthful of potato with some difficulty, eyes lingering on the laptop, the cut of Fred’s suit, which you know to him looks better than his own, even though his is _more_ than fine. You’d tried to keep as many of his suits as possible to make sure that he still feels somewhat like himself. 

 

The children nod with full mouths in answer to their father’s question and wriggle about. Jack’s elbow nearly goes into the gravy jug. Claire gives a bit of a muffled laugh, before she steers her son’s arm clear. Fred grins rather fondly at them all, before he looks rather consideringly at Mycroft and you. “I suppose it’s better for you now really. About you not being able to conceive? What with everything that’s been happening over the past year?” It’s like the air gets sucked out of the room. Even the rambunctious twins stop their squabbling [this time about who’s getting the best toys] and go perfectly still, as if they know that some kind of invisible line has just been stepped over. 

 

Claire says, “Oh honey,” with a look at her husband, lowering her fork of meat. 

 

Mycroft and you go tense. Fred seems to suddenly realize that it might have been too soon to have announced such a thing. Personally you think that you would have waited until the next century. Gravy drips down from Fred’s lips. As he dabs himself apologetically with the napkin you relish the fact that for a moment he’s unsure. 

 

“We've explained previously,” you say in a level voice, trying to be patient, “We’re both very career minded people. We don’t want children. I deal with them enough at school anyway.”

 

Fred and Claire look at Mycroft and you as if you’re an interesting portrait in an art gallery. Perhaps a portrait that’s a bit _too_ modern for them. All tilted heads and large eyes. You feel a bite of annoyance. Each time you explain you hope that it might actually sink in, but it never does. 

 

“Listen, I know this is a sensitive issue,” Fred says placatingly. You grimace at him. He reaches across and grasps at your hand. As he does so his expensive shirt crinkles and as Mycroft growls you don’t know whether it’s because of that or because of Fred touching you. Either way you can probably guess that his eyes are filled with distaste right now. “I suggested giving this to you both as a Christmas gift, but Claire said that it might be a bit of a shock if we just gave it to you without first having some kind of conversation about it.” You look at Claire now hoping that she really has been sensible enough to rescue you here. You can never tell with her. You used to be a lot closer. She’d look after you. Then came Fred and now most of the time she just goes along with his schemes. She’s no pushover though. You’ve heard her snap at Fred more than once. Usually about how to raise the children. Fred rubs his fingers across your hand. “Anyway, since we've got enough money-sorry.” He looks at Mycroft. You feel like grabbing at your husband’s hand now, but considering Fred has got his large one over yours it would probably look really weird like you’re doing a séance or something, so you don’t. “We thought we’d get you that and something else, so here. Have this one early.” He pulls an envelope out from the inside of his jacket pocket. Slides it across to you. Gingerly you pull it towards you. The boys whine about you getting a gift early, crying out about the unfairness of it all in that way that rich, spoilt children do. You can’t hear them much however over the roar of your beating heart. Slowly you lift the envelope. You wonder what hideous gift your brother-in-law has bestowed upon you this time. Some interesting ones that you’ve had so far include a blender that you’d sold when you’d moved house, a feminine DIY kit when you’d _actually_ moved, the tools all in pink [“You might have to be more proactive now F/N,” Fred had said with a fake level of perception, “You don’t know what these small places can be like.” Mycroft had been thrilled and the kit had mysteriously disappeared not long after. You wonder what your husband had done with it.] This one though looks more like a gift voucher. You flip it over thinking it might not be so bad. That is until you see it’s a paid for round of IVF treatment in a London clinic. Your heart does a jump inside your chest. Your hands dart back as if it’s contaminated. Mycroft stares at the piece of paper with a savage displeasure. Your words about children might be true, neither of you _do_ want them, but right then the paper just serves as another reminder of what he hasn’t given you. 

 

“Well”-you look around awkwardly-“We don’t need it.” You give a forced sort of cough and push it back in Fred’s direction. “I dunno if it’s like a book voucher. If you can-return it or something.” Another little laugh that’s cut off suddenly by-

 

“Keep it.” Mycroft. You stare at him. Your lips move from being open and shut. “You never know,” he says offhandedly, and you can tell that something’s wrong, _very_ wrong despite the fact that he’s not reaching for the cigarettes that you know he keeps on him all the time. “In the future you might find that you’ve changed your mind and that will be the only way I can give them to you. I can’t seem to do anything much of anything any more.” He sounds weary and tired and you realize that _he_ is fed up of trying too. You stare at him with a mixture of despair and sympathy in your eyes. 

 

_“Myc”-_

 

“I think I’ll have an early night if that suits everyone. Thank you.” He says those last words promptly, before anyone else has a chance to say anything, withdrawing from the table. Everyone is silent as he climbs up the ladder. You feel ghastly. When he disappears you look back at Fred calculatingly. 

 

“Bit sensitive isn’t he? You should watch out for stuff like that. What with you having found out that his sister’s in that place last year and then all of the things this year. She’s still in that place isn’t she?”

 

Your blood is boiling by this point. Not only at the casual manner Fred used about the compilation of everything that has caused you so much pain, but at the accusation that you have to watch out for Mycroft just in case he has a funny turn or something. “He has done nothing wrong. He has every right to be sensitive and you know _damn_ well”-

 

“She swore! Mummy she swore!” One of the boys-you don’t care which one-says. 

 

“That she’s in that place,” you continue, “That she’ll _always_ be in that place.” You regret telling Claire about Eurus now, but at the time you’d been so upset and confused about Mycroft keeping such a thing from you, so anxious and worried about him that it had all come spilling out over the phone. Mycroft had been cross about it after, but he’d quietly understood, though Claire had been sworn to secrecy all the same. Well, apart from Fred. That had resulted in an argument where Mycroft had stormed out of your sister’s Oxford home and very almost broken up with you altogether until you’d made him see sense. That there was no point in breaking up with each other after having come this far. That whatever he might have thought then he’d miss you and you’d miss him. You get up now. “I think I fancy an early night too,” you say with the last of your dignity intact. “I’ll see you all in the morning. Night boys.”

 

“Night Aunt F/N,” Fred Jr and Jack say in a mumble. It’s the last thing you hear as you go up the ladder. 

 

When you get to the point where you can peer over the top of the ladder you see that Mycroft’s already changed and is now on the mattress, eyes glinting in the low light as he faces you, the fresh white duvet pulled right up to his chin. He looks like a child, worried that he’ll get into trouble. Your heart goes out to him. A long, low sigh moves out of your body as you scramble noiselessly into a standing position on the triangular shape of wood. Slowly, and with his lips tugging downwards, Mycroft sits up. As the duvet falls down to his hips like a white feather you see that he’s not wearing a nightshirt-out of some stupid form of self-punishment probably. Another sigh threatens to leave your lips. Feeling tired yourself you locate the black carry case, root through it for a moment and tug out the long sleeved white t-shirt that you’d made sure Mycroft had packed for this express purpose. You take it over to him; crouching and helping him slip it on, brushing at his skin as you do so and smoothing the t-shirt’s fabric out. 

 

“They think you should leave me. That I'm going mad like my sister.” It’s a statement more than a question. Mycroft avoids your eyes, chewing at his bottom lip. “Maybe I am.” 

 

You tilt his head upwards and kiss him briefly, squeezing at his shoulder as you pull back. “They’re just worried. You’re not mad.” You’re matter of fact, plucking at a strand of his hair and pushing it back. “But listen to me.” You swing around now, settling in between his legs on top of the duvet. You stare into his eyes and grasp at his shoulders, massaging them with your fingers. When you next speak it’s in a hushed voice so that only he can hear you. “I don’t want children. I'm not going to change my mind about that, _or_ about being with you. I love you. I didn't marry you for money or for”-

 

“You loved that house,” Mycroft’s voice cracks now. His eyes look red rimmed and watery when he finally looks at you. He lets out a little sound. It could be a muffled sigh or even a mocking laugh at himself, but whatever it is it makes you pull his head to your shoulder. “And the gardens. Every time I saw you out there it was like you were at peace,” he sounds traumatized. 

 

“I don’t love either of those things as much as I love you.” You know it sounds ridiculously cheesy, but it’s true. In any case if you can’t be cheesy in a private moment with your husband then when can you be?

 

You hold onto him for a moment, before Mycroft, with a somewhat embarrassed expression about his face, withdraws from you. With shiny eyes he says, “I just wish I could give you a Christmas house and expensive jewellery and”- he breaks off with a sniff. 

 

“Gleaming saucepans?” You finish with a raised eyebrow. He lets out a weak chuckle. You shake your head, brushing away his tears. “I don’t need anything but you.” Mycroft doesn’t look convinced. You hug him again, before you settle him back down in bed and get ready to go there yourself. 

 

*

 

You remember waking in the middle of the night to the sound of mice-seems like they've been enjoying the house even when your sister and her family haven’t-Mycroft’s finger pressed to his lips, as you’d stirred uncomfortably and listened until silence fell. Then you’d fallen asleep again with Mycroft’s heavy arm draped across your waist, but when you come to properly it’s morning with a low grey light filtering through the drab window. You can hear the sound of breathlessness and you stir, thinking that there might be something wrong with Mycroft. That he’s upset over Christmas again and having a little cry, or just cold or even worse than either of those things having some sort of health problem. Before you can sit up and look around however you feel something knock into your rib. 

 

“Aunt F/N! Aunt F/N!”

 

 _God._ Can’t Claire control her wild brood for once? At least in the early hours? Releasing a bit of a groan you reach back, trying to push through the mass of twin bodies and find Mycroft who must surely be as annoyed about this development as you, if not even more so. 

 

“Get up Aunt F/N. It’s Christmas!” One of the twins kicks at your side. The other puts a cold, clammy hand by your neck, making you flinch and shiver. Just about suppressing a swear word your hand fumbles for Mycroft again. 

 

When you fail to find him you roll onto your back with some difficulty and yawn, “Where’s Uncle Mycroft?” He’s not by you, you see, looking at the twin filled space with some disdain. The boys are still in their pyjamas, their eyes already sparkly and bright from being alert and their hair mused from both sleep and their play just now. If that’s what you can call it. To you it almost feels like you’ve been assaulted. 

 

“Who cares? It’s Christmas and we've already had our stockings, but Mummy says that we can’t have one more thing until you get up.”

 

“Not one more thing,” Jack adds indignantly, as if you’re proving to be a very troublesome guest.

 

“Well I care about where-where Uncle Mycroft is,” you say in between another yawn, sitting up. You shoo the twins back down the ladder and change. 

 

Now you’re more awake you can hear the slight crackling of the fire below and even feel the beginnings of warmth from it. You can also hear Claire talking softly, Fred chuckling and the boys complaining some more. You can picture their little eyes staring daggers in your direction. You have no intention to please any of them though until you find your husband and make sure that he’s all right. With that thought in mind you grab an envelope that you’ve been keeping hidden in the carry case, climb down the ladder with a determined purpose and spin around. 

 

“Merry Christmas.” You glance quickly at where Claire and the boys are crouched around the Christmas tree, Claire trying to distract them by reading the colourful tags to no avail, whilst Fred, a little distant from things, is sat on one of the wooden chairs, tilted towards the scene. “Have any of you seen my husband?” You stride to where you’d left your hat and scarf on the pegs by the door the previous night and whip them on now. The glance that Fred and Claire exchange though doesn’t escape you and you begin to feel worried. 

 

“He’s stood outside F/N,” Claire begins tentatively. 

 

“Looks like he’s auditioning for a West End play doing his best moody shtick,” Fred drawls. 

 

Your heart skips a beat. Is Mycroft smoking? You manage to calm yourself down a little and send Fred a disapproving look. “Yes, thanks for that. I’ll just go and see what’s up.” Comically both of the boys open their mouths at the same time. “I won’t be a minute.” You nearly slam the door behind you when you hear one of the twins asking why Uncle Mycroft is so moody. 

 

True to both Claire and Fred’s words Mycroft is cutting a very desolate figure in the middle of the field that you’d taken a short cut across the previous day. It’s a relief though to see, when you study him for a moment, that no smoke is curling around his figure. That’s something at least you think. It’s another blustery day and though there are bits of snow mixed in none of it is sticking to the ground. Explosions of light hang in the sky like paralysed fireworks. Your husband is in a warm grey jumper and dark trousers, his hand in his pocket. You’re glad that he hasn’t insisted on wearing a suit today, but a little worried that he didn't see fit to put on his coat and scarf if he was going to be stood out here in the cold all the same. You pad across to him, taking care not to fall. 

 

Despite how hard it is to hear Mycroft seems to sense you coming like he always does and half turns towards you. You grasp at his arm, both for balance on the uneven grass and for comfort, as you both look out again. 

 

“Brr. Freezing. Here, take this. It’s one of your presents, but you can read it later.” You know that for now at least it’s pointless saying anything along the lines of how you hope that he’ll have a good Christmas and simply pass him the envelope. 

 

Pocketing it curiously he lets out a, “Mm.”

 

You rub at his arm a little. “Been up long?” You try to make the statement casually, but it comes out too enquiringly instead. Mycroft looks knowingly at you, a smile quirking at his lips. You try and cover your mistake. “It’s just that if we don’t go inside soon then I think the twins might actually combust and blow the street up.” 

 

“Nothing to do with you wanting to get me out of the cold?” 

 

“Nope,” you say nonchalantly, “I'm a hard taskmaster in that way.”

 

He lets out a snort. “Better get going then, before you make me stay out here.” You feel relieved when he places a hand on your back and begins to steer you inside. His hand slips down to yours as you begin to move, rubbing it, before he folds it in his. You feel grateful. 

 

*

 

You sense the dangerous time coming though. Begin to feel it rising as the present unwrapping progresses. The boys go first. Of course they do. They’re all happy because they've got the expensive scooters they wanted and two electronic fighting robots as well as some arty materials and one of those sets where you can make a volcano and get it to bubble over, as if its just erupted in an attempt by Claire to get them to stay relatively still for a time. When they unwrap the present that’s from you though they look a bit puzzled. 

 

“A _doll?”_ Jack queries, staring at you in confusion now. 

 

You swallow, before you deliver your pre-planned speech. “Gender stereotypes are so very boring. Don’t you think that boys should be able to play with dolls and girls with toy trucks? Besides, it’s a little boy baby, just like the both of you were once.” You speak to both the boys, before you look at Claire. “It’ll help with their compassion.”

 

Fred lets out an exaggerated laugh. “Just as long as it doesn’t help too much hey.” He glances at Mycroft now. 

 

You feel your husband stiffen and put a calming hand on his knee. Still you glare at Fred. There’s nothing wrong with Mycroft. You’re glad that he has a softer side. 

 

As Claire gets up to check on the food Jack trails after her, leaving Fred Jr to pick up the doll he’d left behind uncertainly. 

 

“Mummy a _doll,”_ Jack whines, whilst you pretend not to hear. “What are we supposed to do with a _doll?”_

 

“Honey try and be understanding.” Claire turns and crouches down by her son, but you can still hear her. “Aunt F/N and Uncle Mycroft don’t have a lot of money right now. They can’t afford the more expensive presents.”

 

Your cheeks flush crimson. In your head the tears that you’d once shed and your once sharp feelings spike up like knives. 

 

“Right that’s”- Mycroft seems to have had enough, but he breaks off when you yank him back down again. He looks at you with cloudy eyes. 

 

“We've got you some storage boxes F/N, so you can keep things more tidily in that little place of yours.” Fred leans back in his chair, flexing a foot in the air, already on the sherry. 

 

“How kind of you.” You force a smile at him and squeeze Mycroft’s hand tight. You can practically feel the rage swirling inside him. _‘Stay sitting down. Keep quiet.’_ You try and send a private message through to him. 

 

“Now for my wonderful wife.” Fred tilts himself into a standing position and goes across to squeeze Claire who is on her way back to join you all, Jack trailing her. As Fred withdraws he pulls out an expensive looking box out of his suit pocket and hands it over to her. Your knuckles grow white over Mycroft’s as Fred helps Claire put on her new necklace in such a blatant fashion. It’s gold of course with a piece of holly and snowflakes on either side. He’s also got her an expensive spa break [“Oh thank you darling. Its been a whole two months! My skin is all parched!”] a weekend break to New York with three hundred dollars spending money and has named a new garden after her in their Oxford home. _‘As if she’s the bloody Queen,’_ you think, annoyed more than jealous. You can feel Mycroft seething beside you. 

 

Once Fred is finally done Mycroft puts a firm hand upon yours and says, “Right. Time to indulge my own wife I think.” You send him a bit of a nervous grin. You’ve already spoken in depth about this. About how aside from a few little bits and pieces neither of you will go over the top in your present giving to one another this year. Admittedly you’ve rather added your own bits together and put it towards creating what will hopefully be a nice experience for him, _but-_

 

You have no more time to think or panic. Mycroft pulls out a folded white envelope out of his pocket and hands it to you. 

 

“Thank you.” You peck him on the cheek. His expression is unreadable. You feel like you can barely breathe properly. You unfold it and turn it over, feeling sick. You open it, hoping that it’s just a very small book token or something and not anything that you’re going to have to have an awkward conversation with him about. You could really do with a nice new book or two you think. Its been such a long time since you’ve read anything new. It isn’t a book token however. It’s a helicopter ride over the Thames. There is no squealing. No hug of excitement from you. You simply swallow, throat feeling very dry and hold it up, so that Claire and Fred can see it. The boys are already playing with their electronic robots, crashing them together and making their own sound effects to add to the ones that are already coming out. You feel like you might be doing some sparking of your own with Mycroft later, and _not_ the good kind. Fred Jr picks up the doll and surprises you by suddenly cuddling it. Your softening mood is disrupted by-

 

“Bloody hell,” Fred exclaims, and you see that he is not looking at his son, but at what Mycroft has just given you. It would be comical if you weren’t back to wondering just how much it had cost Mycroft to get the helicopter trip and trying to work out the level of discussion that you need to have with him later. “Are you sure it’s okay to be”-

 

“Die! Die!” The boys, getting carried away, have now teamed their robots up together and appear to be holding the doll hostage to the floor. A moment later they start stabbing at it with their metal figures. 

 

 _“Boys”-_ Claire begins warningly, whilst Fred still goggles at the thought of Mycroft’s gift. 

 

Mycroft however is on his feet. “Right. That’s enough.” His arm dives down between the boys and scoops the doll up. “F/N worked hard to find you this and if you can’t appreciate it then we’ll find someone who will.” 

 

_“Myc”-_

 

“They can’t do that! You can’t do that! Mummy tell him! He can’t take our present away!” Fred Jr protests with tears in his eyes, whilst Jack mutters, “We don’t even _want_ that doll.” 

 

Mycroft still holds the doll up. “Are you going to play with the doll nicely?” He turns his attention to Fred Jr, the more susceptible of the two. 

 

Before Fred Jr can answer though you hear the clip clop of hooves coming from outside. You stand up. “Oh thank God,” you say. Mycroft looks at you curiously, lowering the doll back to Fred Jr who takes it and holds it tightly to his chest. The boys hear the neighing of the horse and suddenly bolt to their feet-the opposite of being electrocuted. Their little faces light up as they look around at their mother. 

 

“Are we getting a horse Mummy?” 

 

“Oh my God I want to ride him straight away!” Fred Jr adds, the doll abandoned on the floor. 

 

“I don’t think so.” Claire looks at her husband now, but he shakes his head. The both of them rise to their feet. Look at you. 

 

You take a bit of a deep breath. You know that what you have to say next might not go down well. In fact you’re sure that there will probably be some sort of protestation. You’d felt like you couldn't resist doing it though-not in the circumstances. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ Mycroft has moved back to you and now touches at your hand, the tips of his fingers curling around yours. 

 

“It’s for us.” You look up at him. “I thought it would make things more special.” The boys troop towards the door, as if mesmerized. Claire has to fight to get them into shoes, before they go outside barefoot. She and Fred wrap up warm too, before they proceed to follow after them. Once you’ve got your winter wear on too you gesture for Mycroft to go before you. He squeezes at your hand, which gives you enough courage to say in a low tone, “Actually I thought we might both need a bit of a break from everyone this year.”

 

Mycroft smiles a slow smile, which lets you know that you’ve done the right thing and then grabs his umbrella, before he steps outside. 

 

The boys are gasping, Claire cooing and Fred looking at the two Shire horses that are ready to pull the open topped, but ornate black and gold carriage, in amazement. The driver of said carriage is a short man with a whiskery white beard and a top hat. 

 

“Mummy can we stroke the horses and go in the carriage?” Fred Jr pulls excitedly at his mother’s sleeve. 

 

“Sure thing champ.” Fred makes to swing him up into the carriage. Mycroft looks at you in a jerky fashion. 

 

“Erm, actually”-you step forwards now-“I booked it just for Mycroft and me.”

 

“Of course,” Claire says faintly and you push past her, Mycroft close to your shoulders. You mumble a shy, but firm sort of greeting to the driver, before Mycroft helps you up into the carriage. It’s cold and a blue and white tartan blanket has been provided, so when Mycroft joins you, you snuggle close to him and pull it over his and your knees. The wind has calmed down somewhat now and the snow flutters uninhibited. 

 

You can’t help but release a short laugh, which you hurriedly turn into a cough at the sight of Claire and Fred. You feel a bit sorry for the boys who look mightily disappointed with how the morning is proceeding, but still feel pleased with your decision. “So we’ll see you later then. I wouldn't think that we’ll be back in time for dinner, so don’t bother saving any for us.” Claire looks gob smacked. Mycroft curious now. You nod at the driver and as the horses first begin to walk and then to trot over the bridge-finally making both Mycroft and you the central characters in your very own Christmas scene-you release another laugh. It had felt freeing to say those words and you feel even more so now. 

 

The carriage curves around the trail on one of the closest mountains, taking you both up higher and higher and though you’re hunched down a little Mycroft and you feel like King and Queen as you sit perched there. You half expect Mycroft to ask you questions-you can feel him looking at you sometimes-but he doesn’t say a word. 

 

You come to a small cabin that’s halfway up the mountains, surrounded by a small group of pine trees, before the horses slow down to a halt. You can almost feel Mycroft’s eyebrow rise silently beside you. You clear your throat a little and Mycroft slowly pushes the blanket off you both, folding it in a distracted fashion. The snow is thicker and the air thinner up here. When Mycroft descends from the carriage with his umbrella the snow makes a little noise like a balloon deflating. He holds up his free hand to you, seemingly trusting you and finding it a little amusing that he’s for once in the dark about things. You take his hand, but still find yourself falling a little awkwardly. Mycroft has to half catch you and nearly drops his umbrella. The pair of you thank the driver and then watch as he rustles the reins. The horses trot on. Mycroft and you watch them leave, whilst Mycroft’s arm is around you, before you separate. 

 

“Welcome to our Christmas retreat.” You wave a hand towards the cabin now. 

 

Mycroft steps towards it and plucks at the door a little cautiously. Thankfully its been left open for you. You’d had many a nightmare over the past few days wondering if you would actually be remembered about or if the door would be shut for you. 

 

Stepping into the cabin is like having a dragon breathing all over you, albeit a very Christmassy dragon. It’s very warm. You catch Mycroft looking across at the small kitchenette after he leans his umbrella up against the wall. Heat is directly coming from the red oven. Garlands of green and red paper loops that have been tied together hang everywhere aside from over the kitchenette area. A brown settee has its back turned to that spot and looks very inviting in front of the blazing fire. A Christmas tree stands nearby to it. There’s three small doorways to a bathroom, bedroom and one that leads outside to the back, but for now your focus goes to the dining table. Its gleaming light wood can barely be seen beneath the red tablecloth, which is heaving with plates and cutlery that have been laid out for two people, a set of three lit candles, two smaller than the other that’s in the middle of them and a tiny red Christmas plant in a small glass pot that stands beside them. 

 

“You know someone?” Mycroft finally speaks when the oven lets out a ping noise. 

 

“I arranged the carriage and horses through a local farmer who was willing to help. As for the cabin I did some online research.” You go across to the kitchenette now. Mycroft, following you with a bit of a frown upon his face, looks at the vegetables that are almost ready and brimming about in saucepans on top of the oven, whilst you slide the small turkey crown out. The juices bubble all around it in its tray. It smells delicious. Mycroft turns down the oven, before he brings the plates to you in order to make the serving process easier. “I managed to get a good deal because I said I had family in the area.” You hesitate. “I guess because my sister doesn’t exactly live here all the time that was a little naughty of me.”

 

Mycroft shrugs, adding potatoes to the first plate you’ve already put some slices of turkey on. “They would have done the same thing I'm sure if the situations were reversed.” You share a rueful smile with each other now and you let the ladle you’re using for the juice dip back down again for a moment, so that you can grasp at his hand. “Is that enough?” He nods at the potatoes once you’ve let go of him.

 

“Mmmhmm.” You’re taking care of the juice again on the other plate. You’ll add some more at the end once everything is dished out. “Is that enough turkey for you?” 

 

Mycroft looks across. “I think you’re being a little too generous.” He’s uncertain. 

 

“You deserve it.” Firm, you slip the plate across to him. 

 

Once you’re both settled by the table and you’ve started on the meal, you explain further, “I had a bit of help too of course”-

 

“There was I thinking that you had Santa’s little elves cooking for you all morning.”

 

You grin a little now, but you’re still a little cautious about how he might take this. “Molly and Greg”-sure enough Mycroft grows tense-“They-well I kept hearing them say how much it would be nice to go somewhere different and have a proper break from things what with everything being so odd this year, so they stayed here last night and I said that if they were willing to cook us a little meal in time for our arrival then I’d pay for them to go and have a proper lunch somewhere nice. I offered to put them up in a hotel too, but of course they wouldn't hear of it. I’ve given them the meal though and some extra money on top of that to cover things. Of course I paid for the cabin last night, so they got a free stay.”

 

Mycroft nods. “I hate feeling like I owe someone.” 

 

“I know.” You abandon your meal for a moment and reach for his hand. It feels stiff beneath yours. 

 

“No you don’t.” He sits back. His hand draws out from underneath yours. He looks off to the side. Tension pools inside your stomach. Have you done the wrong thing? You’d thought that you’d probably be able to have a nicer and quieter meal this way than the one you would have had with your sister and her boisterous family. You’d suspected that Mycroft wouldn't be that keen on Greg and Molly’s help, but they’d been so eager to, acting as if it was all a bit of a fun adventure really. “This entire year…ever since you found out you’ve been so…ridiculously in control of everything”-

 

You flush underneath his praise. “I'm a Headmistress Mycroft. I have experience in trying to solve things.” 

 

“I know, but you got the amount I had to pay each month down. You helped me go through things. Made it more manageable instead of it being like this vast vacuum in my mind. The whole issue with the house-I would have been”-

 

“Please don’t say that you would have been lost without me. I know you. You’d struggle through like you’ve done your whole life.” You’re realistic. 

 

“If I’d ever stopped being in denial about it, and in any case things would have been a lot harder. I would have probably made a million false starts, before I’d done anything. You sorted it all out, and I know it’s not done yet”-Mycroft adds when you open your mouth-“But now you’ve done all this as well when I couldn't even think of anything more original than a helicopter ride over the Thames to give you”-

 

“I like that though. We've both given each other memories.” You know that you have to discuss the helicopter ride in more depth, but now doesn’t seem to be the right time.

 

“I just don’t know how I’ll be able to repay you, let alone anyone else.”

 

You smile a little knowingly at your husband’s dramatic antics, but not too much. You don’t want him to think that you’re laughing at him after all. You scoop a bit of the juice up with your spoon and sip at it. It’s still very warm. “Did you ever think in that wonderfully big head of yours that everyone else and I do all these things because we care for you? That we might in fact love you and as long as you’re okay then that’s all the payment we’ll ever need?” 

 

 _“No.”_ Mycroft turns a faint pink.

 

“Didn't think so.” You're amused, before you drink the juice properly and eat for a little time again. Then you become brave enough to say, “You do know that we shouldn't do the helicopter ride right?” Mycroft becomes tense now. Looks at you. “I mean it was a wonderful gesture and I'm truly grateful. I know too that you probably felt some pressure from competing with my brother-in-law, but you know that we can’t afford to be splurging on things like that Myc. Maybe we can have it as a treat some other time? Once we've got things a bit more under control?”

 

He stares at you grimly for a moment, before he admits, “You’re not the only one who called in some help. A gentleman I used to know, and who still likes me as a matter of fact”-he smiles as if to say that, that’s a rare thing these days and you nod understandingly, knowing that it’s probably more in his head than anything else and that if people genuinely don’t like him then it’s because he’s always been too good for government-“Knows the pilot and I got a good price.” Suddenly you understand why he’d been so reluctant to take news of Molly and Greg’s help as being a good thing earlier. It’s less to do with accepting people’s help and more a resignation that this is what its come to. The pair of you being so careful and trying to find a good price for things, trying to have a good time and not put yourselves back too many steps. Mycroft, so used to caring for and protecting everyone now needs that same level of dedication shown towards himself and he hates it. “I can get the money back, but I’d be happier if you were to accept it.”

 

You hesitate. “Okay.”

 

Mycroft looks pleased and truth be told you feel a little happy about it too. It will be something to look forward to. 

 

*

 

After dinner you feel so ridiculously full when you stand that you outstretch your arms and give an odd sort of wobble when you nearly lose your balance. Mycroft, reading the signs perfectly, abandons even the thought of washing up and goes across to the settee, patting at his lap as he sits down. Smiling at him you slip out of your shoes and go and lie down, your head upon his lap. As you wriggle into place he takes your blue-grey fluffy socks off and allows them to drop casually to the floor, before he pecks at your hair fondly, blowing at it a little, as his arms carefully encircle you. You let out a bit of a gurgle and kick your feet out, before the pair of you settle down. With Mycroft stroking at your hair it’s not long, before you feel warm and sleepy. Your eyes slip shut. 

 

Mycroft’s fingers grow still, as he watches your face in fascination, the little flicker of your eyelids, the twitch of your nose, before your breathing evens out completely. Feeling content he leans back against the settee and is quite prepared to fall asleep himself when he feels the odd prickling of something inside his pocket. Angling you ever so slightly, so that he can gain access he soon discovers that the thing, which had uncomfortably prodded him is the white envelope that you’d given him earlier. You’ve written his name on the front of it and he decides that now is the perfect time for him to read its contents. Slipping it out quietly, so as not to disturb you he sees that you've written:  
_Dearest Mycroft,  
Its been a tough year for us. You know that, but no more guilt about it okay? I know that’s impossible for you, but in an odd way, although it is still hard sometimes and might seem extraordinary to you, I feel grateful for what we've been through. Here are some reasons why: -_

**Things I like about where we live now:**

· _How it does not take long to find you. As much as you know how much I loved our old home I sometimes felt like I was playing an elaborate game of hide and seek!_

 

Mycroft snorts now. 

 

· _How much easier it is to find stuff. Again see above, but boy does it save time!_

 

Mycroft smiles a little. 

 

· _The fact that whenever you cook me breakfast now I'm able to smell it in our bedroom as I wake up. It’s quickly becoming my favourite smell!_  
· _How much easier it is to talk to each other from room to room._  
· _Remember how our bedroom in the old place felt so special and private to us? Well now the whole flat does to me. From the moment we shut the door behind us I am home._

_The point I guess that I'm trying to make is that our new flat is far from small when it is full of us._

_Just because I can I'm going to list some things that I like about you [because it would take too long to list them all!]_

 

Mycroft feels a strong affection for you inside his chest. 

 

· _The way that you’re always a gentleman. From opening doors, be they restaurant ones, car ones or even the one to our flat, to holding your umbrella over me and insisting on paying for meals [despite what has happened this year that is still a good thing!] You always make me feel special, like I'm a lady. You honour me._  
· _You always make me feel safe. Even though you don’t do public displays of affection you know that a simple touch to my hand or back can do so much when I'm feeling the strain. It always makes me feel better, so thanks for that. Whilst at home you know that holding me in bed makes me feel so, so loved. Again thank you._  
· _You do your best to never make me feel stupid. This is linked to the security one, but you listen, you explain and I appreciate it so much._  
· _You enjoy food as much as I do!_  
· _You take me out on dates even though we’re married. Keeping things fresh, as if it’s still the beginning._  
· _You leave me little notes even when it’s not a special day._  
· _You’re always there for me, to listen when I rant about what so and so child did at school that day [or even a teacher!] Even if you’ve had a stressful day yourself._  
· _You let me snuggle up to you on the settee even though I know you prefer the armchair!_

 

Mycroft grins a little guiltily. 

 

· _You pay attention to everything I like even though it might not be to your taste and never judge me for it._  
· _The little upturn of your lips! It’s the slightest movement, but it makes me so happy to see it._  
· _Again with that spark in your eyes!_

 

Mycroft’s body thrums with desire. 

 

· _You never complain when I hog the duvet! I nearly pushed you right to the edge of the bed once. You spent the night freezing cold and with hardly any space, but when I woke up and realized that morning you acted, as if it had been simply your duty to do such a thing._

 

Mycroft still thinks it was the right thing to do now. He gives a little harrumph. 

 

_I know this should probably go into the gentleman category, but thought that it definitely deserved its own special mention._  
· _The things you put up with. Remember that time I was obsessed with those smoothie drinks that Claire got me hooked onto? They took up a lot of space in the fridge, but you were graceful about their presence. Or every time I have to listen to a new album on repeat, so that I can take in the lyrics properly and appreciate each song? Or when you were coming home to find me doing yoga and I couldn't speak to you right away because I’ve never been one for talking, whilst I exercise? The time I was having trouble sleeping? Every time I got up you did too._  
· _Your voice. Honestly it never fails to make my heart do a little jump of happiness inside my chest._  
· _The way you understand. You don’t just offer solutions. You get it._  
· _The fact that you have a much bigger sense of humour than most people would imagine! I love it when you’re sneaking a hand into the cookie mix or making some comment about what’s on TV. The time you made me feel convinced that our old house was haunted!_  
· _The way that you’re so caring and protective. Honestly I know that you might think that I’ve been overlooking these things lately. What with Eurus and the financial difficulties we've had I know you might be thinking that being caring and protective is actually your downfall, but they aren't and I love those two things about you now more than I have ever done. You always walk on the outside when we’re out. You always make sure I'm all right. You always get angry and upset on my behalf if I'm not. When we make love you always make sure that I'm comfortable. You’re so gentle. I know that you don’t want people knowing that, but you are._

_I know you sometimes feel that you’re lucky to have me, but the truth is I feel so, so grateful each and every day that I get to see this secret side of you. To have somehow convinced you to be in love with me. Even with what’s going on you are the husband that I’ve always wanted and more. Never forget that._

_I just hope that whenever you’re feeling sad or lost you might look at this and remember._

 

Mycroft does now. He remembers how it had been a couple of weeks after you’d found the envelope. You’d been frustrated since then. You’d tried to make him see just how serious the money troubles were. Told him that you should be sensible. That you should look for a smaller place. Go through and sell anything that you don’t need. That there should be a purpose to your activities. An order to them. He’d known then that he hadn’t exactly been helping you as much as he should have been. He’d been annoyed when you’d insisted that he should probably try and sell the coat that he’d worn after he’d gone to fetch Sherlock back after the fall. He’d liked that coat. It had kept him nice and warm. Made him look as stylish as he could in such circumstances, but he knows that you’ve never liked it. He’d put you through another hard time then. Made you wait, whilst he’d gone undercover. You’d still had your job of course, but you’d been worried. He’s caused you so much trouble he thinks. In the present his hand shifts against your hair again. At the time he’d wondered if you’d simply been picking on the coat, trying to use any excuse to get it out of your life. To stop it from bringing back all those bad memories again, but in reality he’d known that even if that were the case at the end of the day you were right and just trying to do the right thing by getting rid of it. He’d agreed to it in the end. He’d tried to better balance your feelings with his own. Tried to follow your orders. He’d known that you’d still been wondering how this all could have happened in the first place. He’d caught you looking at him sometimes as you sat there on the settee, this sad, thoughtful expression on your face like a mosaic coming undone. Every time he saw it he'd wanted to re-arrange it. Make you look happy again. You should not have been anything else with him. He’d told you that he was trying to find another job, something that would solve all your problems and let you keep the house. How much he wanted you to keep the house! But the truth was that he’d only been looking half-heartedly. The guilt from it had built up inside him. 

 

One exhausting night when sleep had been nigh on impossible for either of you to come by he’d touched his finger to your hip and confessed in a ragged whisper, “Do you know what I'm ashamed of the most?” 

 

You’d looked scared then. “No,” you’d said and he’d been able to tell that already you were bracing yourself for the next impact. 

 

“The fact that even now, even after everything and you finding out I still can’t bring myself to do enough. To find another job like the one I had before because the truth is I don’t want another job like the one I had before.” He could tell by your suddenly wide, open look of shock that you’d been surprised. “I'm so tired F/N.” He’d clutched at your hand suddenly. “Tired of running into red tape, of the same people, of things getting worse and worse. Everyone being all so stupid.” You’d flinched. “Not you my dear. You’re the only sensible one in this place.” He’d been rueful. 

 

You’d cleared your throat. “I feel like I should have seen this coming though. Should have watched after you more.”

 

“I hid it well.” He’d shrugged. 

 

There’d been a moment of silence then, whilst your eyes had avoided each other’s and you’d both thought. “What about the cyber security work? You said that it stimulated you. Are you enjoying it?” you’d asked.

 

There’d been a hesitation, before he’d bravely nodded. He’d thought that you’d seen it then. How hard it was for him to admit that perhaps walking away from his old career and the job that he’d spent his whole life building up to was maybe the best thing. That it might actually have _been_ what he wanted. “It’s like I'm doing my brother’s cases,” he’d tried to explain, “But without all the”-

 

 _“Legwork,”_ you’d grinned, and in the present he feels that same fondness for you that he’d felt then. “Well then maybe this is what we should do. You’ll stop looking for new work and stick to what you’ve got, as long as it makes you happy. We’ll move house. Find somewhere smaller and more manageable.” Even then he’d shaken his head at you. He couldn't let you go through that level of upheaval just for him. It had seemed impossible to even think that you would. 

 

“It’s because you love me isn’t it?” he says in the present now, finally getting it, as he finishes recalling everything that you’ve been through. Everything that you’ve done for him. He feels touched, moved by it all. He sweeps a careful hand across your hair and then finally gets some sleep himself. 

 

*

 

You wake just as the light is beginning to dip beneath the mountainside, rays of sunshine trying to reach above the snow. Your eyes flicker open. You smile when you see the curve of Mycroft’s neck arching back against the settee. His hands are sprawled across your stomach where the letter that you’d given him is resting. You hold onto his hands gently as you sit up. Peering up at him you see that he’s fast asleep. It’s rare these days that you see such a peaceful expression upon his face. It’s so open at the moment. _Calm._ It makes you feel relieved, and, if you’re honest, a little mischievous. You detach yourself from him carefully. He snuffles and grunts, head tilting to one side, but you manage to get up without waking him up. At least that’s what you think you do. You lay his large hands carefully upon his lap over the letter, before you straighten up and stretch. You look about. The candles are still lit, so you blow them out. You step towards the window. It must have snowed as you slept because it looks thicker out there now. Glancing back at Mycroft you get an idea. Slipping your socks and shoes back on and bundling yourself in your winter clothes you head towards the door, opening and shutting it carefully. You creep across and pick up a handful of snow, melding it into one hard block, before you retreat to the door. Opening it again you kind of wish that you’d worn your gloves. It would have been far simpler, but you’d never thought to bring them with you on this trip. To your surprise however your intended target is no longer on the settee. The letter still is though. Frowning you take a couple of cautious steps further inside. Perhaps Mycroft has gone to the toilet? You don’t wish to pre-warn him, but-

 

“Myc are you there?” No response. _“Myc?”_ Could he have popped into the bedroom to see what it looks like? You totter forwards again, torn between going in there or the bathroom. Suddenly you let out a screech and drop your snow completely when you feel a pair of cold hands lifting up your coat and top, before they land squarely on your hips. A familiar chuckle radiates from behind you. _“Myc!”_ You whirl around. He must have crept out of the back of the cabin and gone all around. The bugger! 

 

“And what were you intending to do with that pray tell?” Your husband looks at the melting snow that’s dribbling on the floor and then at you, eyebrow arched. You give him your best winning smile. “You weren’t perhaps intending to wake up your poor sleeping husband with it?”

 

“My poor sleeping husband whose apparently read my letter. Did you like it?” you fire back, though you’re genuinely curious to know. 

 

“Very much so,” he says, and you can tell that he honestly means it by the way that his eyes gleam with an intensity as he looks at you. You share a brief kiss together, before he adds, “That doesn’t mean though that I'm not going to have my sweet, sweet revenge on you.” 

 

You pretend to be mock horrified. “I didn't do anything… _yet.”_

 

Mycroft’s eyes spark. He lets out a bit of a laugh and the pair of you hurry to be the first one out of the door. He tries to block your smaller body with his taller one, forcing you back by trying to keep holding onto the door frame with his hands. 

 

“Not such a gentleman now, am I?” he smirks upon seeing your frustration. “Tonight I'm going to kiss you everywhere, or maybe I'll just do that right now…” You receive the kiss he bestows on you willingly, using the opportunity to try and lessen his lead by tickling his middle. His body shrinks back from yours with a delicious whine of protest and you manage to push past him. He spins and grabs at your waist, trying to keep you from the snow. You doggedly manage to keep going, but he swings you back just as you lunge forwards in an attempt to escape and you both go crumpling to the ground, you bursting with laughter. 

 

“Getting us into trouble again?” you say in a soft, husky tone. You manage to move onto your back. Mycroft is half over you, chest slightly lifted off yours, head close.

 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, breath coming out in a cloud. 

 

“I wouldn't have it any other way,” you grin, tugging him down to your lips now. You kiss him slowly and leisurely, Mycroft’s hand half being used to balance himself as it touches tentatively at the skin beneath your top. Light snowflakes rain down upon you. With the snow at your back and Mycroft’s heat coming from above you, you feel oddly comfortable. Your hand snakes around to his hair, tugging on the ends and pulling him close-

 

“Mummy! Mummy! Look how deep the snow is!” A voice intrudes upon the scene. Oh dear God no. That can’t be one of the twins can it?

 

You hear the crunching of footsteps, Mycroft’s lips still intensely upon yours. He must have heard the noise too, but is making the most of every second if you’re about to be disturbed. 

 

Then Claire’s voice says, “Oh my! Perhaps we should hang back for a second?”

 

Mycroft scrambles off you so fast that his body catches against you awkwardly several times as he does so. Winded a little you let him pull you up. As one you both turn. 

 

The twins, back in their reindeer jumpers beneath their coats, along with their wellingtons lead the fray, Claire and Fred huffing and puffing a little behind them. Fred’s moustache looks whiskerier than ever. Claire raises her eyebrows at you, as if to say that she wouldn't have taken Mycroft and you to be the sort of couple who roll about in the snow. Flushing, but fierce all the same you look back at her. It’s then to your surprise that you see Greg and Molly are trailing after them, just coming over the slope of the hill. Mycroft shifts closer to you, his hand rubbing off some of the snow that’s on your back, before it settles down upon your waist. 

 

“We got the carriage part of the way,” Claire calls across to you, “Parked it just a little way away. We wanted our visit to be a surprise.”

 

“Well, it was certainly that,” you say. Mycroft’s lip twitches up a little. 

 

Fred laughs as if what you’ve just said is hilarious, before he gives a little wink Mycroft’s way. “Not so problematic hey?” Mycroft reddens. His fingers dig into your waist. You hold onto him too. 

 

“Aunt F/N! Uncle Mycroft!” The twins come running up to you. Fred Jr flings his arms around you, whilst Jack tackles Mycroft. Your arms go around the small boy in order to steady him. “We missed you.” Fred Jr looks up at you. 

 

“Did you?” You’re surprised. 

 

“Uh huh.” Fred Jr nods, before he peers up at Mycroft. “We played with the doll really well earlier.”

 

 _“Did_ you?” Mycroft is equally as astonished. 

 

The little boy nods earnestly again. “Mummy said we can get some new clothes for him and everything.” If this was a comedy then you’d be falling to the floor right now. Not such a transformation then, but still progress, which you feel encouraged by. 

 

The adults reach you. 

 

“Hey you two,” you address Molly and Greg softly, hugging them in turn. “The dinner was lovely. Thank you.” 

 

“You’re welcome,” Molly says, as modest as ever about her role in things and you feel a wave of affection for her. You know that things hadn’t been easy for her after Sherrinford either. You feel thankful that she and Greg have been there for each other, starting their own romance. You think they both might have found the right person this time. She swings her arms a little. “Well, we were at the restaurant you recommended when Greg said”-

 

“ ‘God those people over there look glum,’” Greg re-enacts the scene. You laugh. Mycroft smiles rather stiffly. You feel a fondness towards him. 

 

Fred steps a little closer. “We felt a bit bad actually, after the both of you went. Even the boys weren’t quite themselves, so we decided to give our own dinner a miss and go to this restaurant.” It’s lucky that they can afford to do such a thing. 

 

 _“Oh?”_ You can’t help but be a little sceptical. After all it’s not like you believe in Christmas miracles. 

 

“But we still struggled even then,” Claire continues, taking up the strand of her husband’s story. “Like we weren’t getting into the proper Christmas spirit y’know? The boys kept asking where you’d gone and why we weren’t all eating together.”

 

“See? Told you we missed you!” Fred Jr pipes up.

 

“They got it better than us,” Fred admits now, mildly ashamed of himself. 

 

You’re feeling more and more surprised. It crashes to a halt however when Claire says, “How we've practically got everything and you”- she waves between Mycroft and you. 

 

“We’re fine,” you say defensively, pulling Mycroft’s side to yours. “We've got each other.”

 

Claire’s face softens. _“Anyway,_ we saw this couple keep looking at us and we were all feeling a bit on edge, so”-

 

Oh no. Did Claire start having a go at Molly and Greg? Mycroft too looks concerned. 

 

“They asked us what we were staring at,” Greg recounts, sounding amused. 

 

“Oh God,” you groan. 

 

“Wait for it, it gets better,” Greg warns, grinning now. 

 

“So then we asked, rather politely I thought,” Molly adds, smiling herself now, “If they were having a happy Christmas and if their boys had, had lots of nice things this year.”

 

“But we were a bit sarcastic, before we explained everything when we realized they weren’t taking this piss,” Fred says, shifting his weight. “About how Claire had, had her sister down here and we all thought that we’d rather made a right hash of things.” He looks forlorn now. You almost feel sorry for him. It seems that just like Mycroft he’s sad when his family are. “It was rather disconcerting for us you know? All that.”

 

“Anyway, we started to think that this sister sounded very familiar to us.” Molly starts to laugh, as Greg taps thoughtfully at his chin. 

 

“Yeah, anyone who goes off in a carriage on Christmas Day leaving some of their family behind is probably very stubborn and determined, but caring too because you wanted to cheer Mycroft up and”- Greg begins. 

 

“The best aunt ever!” the twins interrupt. 

 

Everyone laughs, you rather awkwardly. 

 

“When we figured out the connection and realized that they knew where you were we just couldn't believe it,” Claire goes on. “We realized that what we actually wanted was to spend Christmas together,” she finishes. Softened, and a little teary, you hug her now. “It’s because we love you little sis, and we know you know what’s best. Really we do. We just worry.” She pecks at your hair. 

 

“I'm safe with him,” you murmur, so that only she can hear. 

 

“I know. I know.” She draws back, clutching onto your shoulders. You think she honestly might now. “You’ve been together a long time.” She looks between Mycroft and you. “We have to respect that, _and_ your choices, even though they might be different from ours.” A faint smile breaks across your face like a spark from the fading light on the hillside. 

 

 _“Eurgh!_ Mummy’s getting Auntie all soft. She’ll start to melt,” one of the twins says, before they start pelting snowballs at you all. 

 

“I very much doubt that,” Mycroft murmurs fervently, so that only you can hear, before you all spread out to avoid the incoming attack. 

 

Claire mostly watches or is used as a bemused shield, but she does throw one or two snowballs. Fred teams up with Mycroft and you in a move that no one could have seen coming earlier that day, Molly and Greg form their own team, and you all gang up on the twins. 

 

“Hey no fair,” Jack squeals in delight. 

 

“Five against two!” Fred Jr runs about, dodging a snowball attack from your husband. You suspect that he’d deliberately missed, but as things get rowdier you laugh more than you have in a long while when Mycroft deliberately targets you, spinning you about again, for once uninhibited by other people. 

 

*

 

“They forgot something when they were listing things earlier,” Mycroft says when you’ve got the cabin to yourselves again. You’d booked it until the following morning, so you’d decided to make the most of it. You’re in the bedroom now and you’d been embarrassed, but pleased to discover that Molly and Greg had left rose petals scattered all over the bed with its navy duvet and a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket on the bedside cabinet. Mycroft and you had sipped at your glasses of it leisurely for a time. The warm fire still on in the other room had kept the place nice and warm. You’d topped it up with wood, before everyone went. Now with the lights on low he hovers above you beneath the covers. 

 

“What was that?” you murmur like a cat waiting to purr from praise, eyelids swooped low in flirtation, one arm cradling his back loosely.

 

“That you’re loving. Oh so loving,” he breathes. Then his body is lowering and he’s covering you. 

 

You make love slowly that night, not to forget everything you’ve been through, but to _remember,_ Mycroft thanking you with every touch for what you’d said in your letter. 

 

Once it’s over you realize just before you fall asleep in your husband’s arms that though there will no doubt be difficult days ahead of you both in the future this has been one of the good ones.


End file.
